


Saturday Meet

by drvology



Category: Eyewitness (US TV)
Genre: M/M, fic-a-month, my 2018 challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:38:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: Philip doesn't take pictures and is miserable and out of sorts and can't say why but could name all the parts causing it.





	Saturday Meet

**Author's Note:**

> In the same 'universe' as my other Eyewitness fics, grouped together with the 'at the falls of the aniene river' collections link. || In 2018 I'm hoping to write 1 fic a month. This is 08/12. Fic for August.

Philip checks the official clock and Lukas' scrawled notes on practice time and race order. One excruciating minute later on the clock and otherwise exactly the same as the other millionity checks he's made.

He can barely read above the noise. Everything is loud and louder. Engines revving, some guy droning on a loudspeaker he can't make out and music playing impossibly underneath, people screaming encouragement or shouting conversations. Everything is movement, loud and louder—and mud. Mud-colored, covered in mud, a fake landscape carved into a hillside and valley just mud mud mud.

It cakes his shoes and makes his legs feel 10 pounds heavier. Riders churn it as they go, covering their bikes and backs and the spectators who stand too close. The atmosphere is dense with it—a wet earthy smell mixed with fumes and sweat. Loud and muddy and overwhelming.

He's not ready to bolt but he's not enjoying this either. He's trying, but. It's all very masculine and rural and he's standing out despite his flannel, the trucker hat he borrowed from Lukas, the well-worn boots Gabe bought him months ago. He's for sure the stranger in the strange land, here.

 _Look! you can get lots of perfect mud pictures_ Lukas had grinned at him, kicking a clod of it as they walked into the racecourse from the parking lot, bike between them. _Only the best, right?_ Lukas kept grinning, hyped, and Philip managed to grin back. The bike between them not a barrier but definitely a gestural safety net, an excuse for Lukas not to walk alongside him instead.

Philip tells himself he doesn't mind.

Lukas had gestured to the best spectator area, at the best vantage and by the most savage parts of the course, and Philip nodded. He'd promised to get good pictures—Lukas had laughed _duh yeah you will_ —and said go kick ass.

He'd wanted to say be awesome, you're amazing. To touch Lukas, however hidden and furtive. Instead he'd raised his own shields, hoisting his camera and snapping close-up pictures of Lukas with that all-mud backdrop—great contrast to the bright white and bold color outfits and bikes he has to admit—and let Lukas leave without having or insisting to make it something more.

Nothing more than that.

Nothing but two pals, buddies, moto-enthusiasts. One here to race, the other here to take pictures and be supportive and kinda scared out of their minds over the noise and threat of injury and yearn for even the barest fleeting kiss and worry if just yearning for that will get them jumped and clobbered.

After they parted he tried to blend in, as if big-city-wtf isn't emblazoned across his forehead. He doesn't know anyone and doesn't attempt to make friends but it's not totally awkward and awful. Tried not to feverishly scan the side area, the pit, clumps of riders for Lukas every second. Absolutely avoided wondering whether or not he'd ever fit into this—subculture, Lukas' domain, a removed observer—and if he could stand every race every meet every moment with that bike between them.

"There you are."

Philip startles enough he actually squeaks.

"Whoa." Bo raises a hand and his eyebrows. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

Bo accepts that, hands Philip a waxed paper cup without a top. "No mango but they did have lemonade."

"Thanks." Philip smiles down into the cup before taking a long drink. He hadn't asked for anything, hadn't expected or maybe even wanted for Bo to find him, ridiculously appreciates Bo thinking about mango and finding him and getting him a drink.

"Sure?"

Philip starts to compliment the tepid lemonade but his brain circles back and he sighs. "It's just—this is a lot."

"Don't I know it." Bo slings both arms over the galvanized metal barrier covered in orange flashing they're bellied up to and waves out at the course. "I'm still not quite used to it."

"Wait what, really?"

Bo seems right at home amid all this, shaking hands with coaches and would-be sponsors and doing that chin-nod thing at other dads, maneuvering around this loud fake carved landscape of mud like no big deal.

"Really. But you'll learn what to key in on, what to ignore. The noise, having to split attention as each class and rider leaves the gate, the crowds." Bo pauses. "Not all true—I hate the crowds."

Bo waits for Philip's reluctant smile. He does smile, and that he does believe.

"It might take a while. I've been doing this since Lukas was a sprout and haven't found any way not to worry about him out there. But, I hope for the best and know he knows what he's doing." Bo shrugs.

"Good enough." Sound advice, and similar to what he's been thinking. Philip nods agreement, takes a succession of pictures, changes the shutter speed and settings. Some are crisp riders framed by a blurred background, some are blurred riders barreling past a detailed foreground.

He shares a few with Bo, because it's tangible and something to talk about and Bo is interested in his photography. Or at least interested in making an effort to care about what he cares about, and that Philip appreciates way more than tepid lemonade.

Bo claps a hand on Philip's shoulder. "He's real glad you came to this—definitely good enough." Doesn't let the touch linger but in a good way, a natural easy way. "Almost his go. There," Bo points.

All that checking and time standing still and suddenly it's upon him.

Philip's gaze dutifully follows Bo's direction but he doesn't need it. His skin prickles with recognition—his heart responds. Lukas' movement quality, Lukas' indefinable everything. Even clad in pads and helmet getting into place half-concealed by the riders ahead at the gate, Philip knows.

He'd watched Lukas' practice runs with fascinated trepidation. Didn't need anyone to say there-he-is, didn't need anything to hold his attention other than it being Lukas. Didn't expect and thrilled at Lukas' surprise shy wave.

As Lukas drops into the course his nerves skitter and his belly knots. He almost forgets to take pictures. His first is a dud, dull mass of the fence in front of them, the second a lovely shot of the horizon at crazy dutch angles. Philip breathes, thinks about Lukas out there having to be centered and breathing, and that settles him into a matching rhythm to Lukas leaning into curves and hunching over bumps and flying off berms.

Lukas' go is over just as suddenly. Bo whistles and there's a smattering of applause.

"How'd he do?" Philip honestly has no clue. Seemed great to him but he wasn't critical. That and just watching Lukas do practically anything was great to him.

"Solid. His riding was good—but slow for him. Not tentative but not full-on attack." Bo tilts his head. "Let's go find him and talk lunch. He's done for today."

"Already?" Philip gets a few more pictures of Lukas talking to other riders by the finish line, snags the empty waxed paper cup and tosses it in a nearby trash barrel, and catches up. "I thought he did okay though."

"He did very okay—for being out of practice. Not sharp and not going to place, but very okay. And he earned points for overall standings."

Bo is proud, loose and uncritical, and it's reassuring and cute, but Philip doesn't comment on that.

"Lukas," Bo says as they approach the safety area past the finish line, pulls Lukas in for one of those hand-clasp-hug things. "You did good out there, son," claps Lukas on the back.

Lukas is beaming and confident. "Yeah, not too bad. I'm slow on the curves but the jumps felt steady. Thanks." He blushes—pleased—glances at Philip. "Hi."

Philip goes for casual. "Hey." He doesn't even step forward. "Not bad. Good even. At least that's what your dad says." He sounds stiff and it's weird but whatever.

"You get some good shots?" Lukas starts pushing his bike clear but has eyes on Philip.

Philip nods but doesn't enthuse or share any. He's not sure how any came out.

The small wrinkle of a frown shows between Lukas' eyes and he slows, but then Owen shows up with a reporter.

Owen represents Lukas' biggest sponsor. The reporter wants a quick rundown of how it felt out there, how Lukas is doing, how the rest of the year will go. Owen answers most of the questions.

Philip can tell Lukas doesn't mind, isn't being pushed around, just doesn't have the savvy yet. Philip's not sure he ever wants Lukas to get it—confidence yeah, Owen's earnest slick no way.

He and Bo remain quiet at the edges, although Owen pulls Bo in for some supportive dad quotes. Philip shifts on his feet, scans the muddy din, and taking pictures of the interview and the scene gives him something to do.

"And this is Philip," Lukas adds to the end of Owen's statement Philip hadn't listened to.

"Oh hey, good to meet you and put a face with the name. Hi, Philip." The reporter is a twenty-something dude, kind of hipster kind of lumberjack, jots quick notes. "It's cool that you're here. Lukas said before you're who makes all his vids and everything."

Disappointment and shame—more like anger—blazes through Philip. Short-lived, bright, has him pulling up to stand straighter and a step back from Lukas and Owen and this dude. It's stupid to be disappointed that he's a vid and everything maker, only, but there it is. He grinds his teeth and smiles.

The reporter is nodding like Philip answered and Lukas closes the distance, hip-checks Philip.

"The sweetest vids. Philip's work really helps me stay connected to fans and the sport." Lukas grins, full watt, and drops an arm over Philip's shoulders. "He's a great photographer too, not just motocross stuff."

Lukas is hot—literally—from the sunbake and exertion and bike motor. Sweat runs from his forehead and plastered-down hair. He stinks but it's not an odor Philip minds, calls to vivid imagining other exertion and methods they get hot and sweaty doing.

Philip fidgets and Owen takes over again, steers the brief interview to an end. Lukas massages Philip's arm.

"You looked good out there, Lukas. Strong. Today's a good day to build on." Owen takes in the group. "With another big race next month to work toward."

"Absolutely." Lukas nods and shakes Owen's outstretched hand. He doesn't let go of Philip to do so.

"Great." Owen shakes Bo's hand, smiles for real at Philip. "Good to see you here, Philip. Hope it's a trend. Stability and humanizing the rider and all, you know." He nods and uses a bandana to wipe the mud from the company logo sticker on Lukas' bike, and then leaves with the reporter.

"Other riders to talk to, I bet." Lukas sighs raggedly, whole body relaxing, but he tightens his hold on Philip. "Glad that's over—I hate interviews and talking to reps or whatever. I just wanna ride, you know?"

"That might be, but getting better at interviews and talking to sponsors will keep you riding." Bo arches an eyebrow, spears Lukas with a knowing look, but he doesn't push. "Right. I was saying to Philip we should get lunch. What would you boys like?"

Philip has _anywhere but here_ on the tip of his tongue.

"The rider assistance peeps are grilling out at the south end of the parking lot. Picnic tables and tents for shade and everything. Lunches are five bucks and it goes to help with medical bills and expenses." Lukas catches Philip's expression. "It was just an idea if it sounds okay, but we don't have to."

"Sounds like a good deal for a good cause. Philip?" Bo turns expectantly.

Philip isn't sure what his expression is but he doesn't like Lukas' so he grins. "Fine with me."

"Okay, good." Bo pats Lukas on the shoulder again and nods at Philip. "You get the bike stowed in the truck and I'll meet you there."

"Awesome." Lukas is still grinning, disentangles from Philip with a final squeeze, grabs the handlebars, and knocks the bike kickstand up.

Philip falls in step, careful to get the bike between them.

"I know you're my head creative guy, but this way we're both in anyone else's picture."

Philip knows Lukas spoke but wasn't listening to the words. "What?"

"What what?" Lukas frowns. "Is something wrong? You're acting kinda funny." He exhales and speeds the bike along. "You hate this, don't you. God, I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked or made you feel like you had to show up or whatever."

"What—no." Philip huffs. It's not like that, not exactly. They're still walking and he shakes his head. "Let's just deal with the bike, okay?"

"Okay. Sure."

Lukas' excitement and easygoing confidence dims and that Philip does hate. He stands back when Lukas bats him away to get the bike into the truck bed and secured. He doesn't take pictures and is miserable and out of sorts and can't say why but could name all the parts causing it.

They stomp toward the billowing smoke and drifting smells of the cookout and words trickle into Philip's awareness.

"Wait." He stops but doesn't snag Lukas' elbow. When Lukas stops he crosses his arms because he really wants to touch and figures he shouldn't. Can't. "I don't hate it, okay? I'm glad I'm here and finally get to see you do this. Your dad's been cool too but it's big and loud and you're not you—I mean, we're not, like, us here—and sure I get it and I'm not even mad but I don't know… and why did the reporter say you mentioned me before and what do you mean the bike between us for someone else's picture? And… I'm not making any sense."

Lukas blushes, that soft pale pink Philip loves so much. He snags both of Philip's elbows, pulls, tucks them into a firm, surrounding, whole body hug.

"I hate how loud it is too. All the people." Lukas grunts but smiles against Philip's neck. "That's the reporter who did stories on the whole—situation—my injury and recovery, coming back to riding. Blah blah all that. I told him about you because he wanted to link to the videos. Told him that's how we met, how it's an awesome perk to have an amazing photographer for a boyfriend."

Philip shorts out at the word. At Lukas' matter-of-fact saying it. Saying it to a reporter for some story that included Philip to be referenced today as talked about before.

"So yeah, he's nice and has a good following. As in numbers but also riders and fans who care more about the sport and being good and that my boyfriend's awesome than giving me shit for it. He's been a chill way to talk about everything." Lukas moves back a step and Philip's whole front goes cold.

"And I just figured if you're all the way over here—" Lukas gestures far to one side, "a photographer can crop you out. But if you're close and helping me with the bike, well. They've gotta include you in the shot." He rubs his neck. "That's probably stupid too, I mean I don't know anything about photography, but—"

"But you're right. And not stupid. About anything." Philip shakes his head again, shakes his whole body, grins huge and true and laughs. He's not going to explain because one, it's wasn't fair to set demands on Lukas going into this and he'd promised himself that and wow he'd done it anyway with overreaction city like whoa and explaining would thrust that back on Lukas, and two, telling a reporter and whoever reads that reporter that he's Lukas' boyfriend and wanting him in pictures makes up for everything. That never occurred to him as a possibility. He gave Lukas the benefit of the doubt in so much but not in that direction, those ways. "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit overwhelmed and thinking too much. But I don't hate it."

"I wondered, thought maybe that was going on. And it is a lot—but you'll get used to it." Said foregone conclusion, because it's a foregone conclusion they'll be, stay, stick together. Lukas shoves Philip and starts them walking. "Man, so that's why you were acting squirrelly."

Philip rolls his top lip in and gnaws at his lower lip, lifts his hands and makes squirrel-like claws. Lukas' head falls back with a laugh, and the tension and worry and way-overthinking-this melts away. "You did awesome today. I'm super glad I'm here."

"Me too." Lukas fingers the hair curling at Philip's nape, eyes going drowsy, and his full-watt happiness resurges. "Thanks."

Bo has spots at a table for them, gestures at the three cans of soda and plastic-wrapped cutlery sets over the crowd milling in the tent. Lukas sits. Philip stays standing and hooks a thumb toward the grills, pivots, and Lukas catches his swinging arm. Kisses his wrist—so fleeting, warm, so wonderful—and tracks his plate-laden progress back to the table.

He and Bo get the brats and burgers and roasted ears of corn and potatoes, sides of beans and chips and cookies, all set down. Then they angle and get situated, seated, Philip not minding sharing the table with others or the roar of motors in the background or the loudspeaker talking about this young buck's stats. Lukas has unwrapped the cutlery and napkins and unfolds one over Philip's thigh. Leaves his hand there while they eat.


End file.
